I killed my mother, it wasn’t my fault

I Killed My Mother, It Wasn’t My Fault is a raw, irreverent, and darkly comic exploration of a young woman’s inner landscape on a morning that feels like it might swallow her whole. At twenty-five, she finds herself wrestling not just with unemployment and crippling self-doubt, but with the relentless noise of social media, the judgement of the world, and the complicated presence of her mother — real or imagined, remembered or internalised.

What unfolds is a portrait of urban girlhood as it truly is: funny, frantic, contradictory, self-aware, and perpetually overstimulated. The play refuses tidy narratives or heroic arcs; instead, it captures the absurdity of simply trying to get through a day when you’re caught between the curated chaos of your online persona and the messy truth of your offline self.

Created by wayward women and femmes, the work interrogates privilege, identity, and the overwhelming digital hum that shapes how we think, feel, and blame. It speaks to anyone who has reached for their phone before reaching for their thoughts, anyone who has felt their inner critic shouting louder than the world, and anyone who has stood at the shaky intersection between reality and the internet’s distorted mirror.

At once intimate and universal, I Killed My Mother, It Wasn’t My Fault is a playful, piercing, and painfully relatable ode to the chaotic mental clutter of contemporary life — and the small, stubborn hope of surviving it.